I feel my voice beginning to falter as we enter this cursed space, the notes of our lullaby growing weak and threadbare. Each word requires tremendous effort to produce, and even then they emerge as barely more than whispers, swallowed by the oppressive silence before they can reach Eurydice's ears. Panic scratches at my throat as I realize what's happening—without my voice to guide us, without our songs to protect us, we're helpless against whatever horrors wait in this final passage.
"Stay close," I try to say, but the words come out as nothing more than shaped breath, soundless and impotent. The Hush presses against us like a living thing, eager to drain awayevery note, every tone, every vibration that might carry hope or warmth or life.
Behind us, I can hear the drowned choir gaining ground, their lament growing stronger as our protective songs fade to nothing. They know what this place does to the living, know that here their voices will finally triumph over ours. Their harmonies chase us through the tunnel like hunting hounds, no longer beautiful but vicious with desperation and hunger.
I reach for the emergency techniques Tidemother Antea taught me, the sailor's tricks passed down through generations of men who sang to guide ships through the worst storms. I close one nostril and try to force sound through the other, using the pressure to create resonance in my chest cavity. Nothing. I pound my ribs, trying to create percussion that might cut through the silence. The impacts make no sound at all.
The Hush is winning, and with each step forward, I feel more of myself being consumed by the terrible quiet. My voice is more than just a tool—it's part of who I am, the essence of my power as protector and guide. Without it, I'm just another lost soul stumbling through the dark, unable to sing Eurydice home or call for help or even whisper my love.
Desperation drives me to a technique so dangerous I've never dared attempt it before. I bite down hard on my own tongue, tasting copper and pain as blood fills my mouth. Blood-salt has power in the old magic, the life force that flows through mortal veins carrying more weight than any blessing or ritual. I let the metallic taste coat my throat, using my own essence to sharpen whatever voice I can muster.
The effect is immediate and excruciating. Sound returns to my throat like fire, burning through the Hush's suppression with raw, bleeding force. My voice emerges not as the trained bass of a sea-captain, but as something primal and desperate—the howlof a beast protecting its mate, the battle-cry of a warrior who will not yield.
"Through—the—silence—we—will—pass,
Blood—and—bone—and—heart—held—fast,
Love—speaks—louder—than—the—grave,
Two—hearts—nothing—can—enslave."
Each word tears at my throat like broken glass, and I taste more blood with every syllable. But the song works, creating a thin channel of sound through the crushing quiet. The Hush recoils from the bloody music, unable to fully suppress something paid for with life itself.
I feel Eurydice's hand tighten on my shoulder, her own voice joining mine in a harmony made harsh by desperation. She's followed my lead, biting her own lip to add the power of blood to her soprano. Together we sing our way through the tunnel, our voices raw and ragged but unbroken, refusing to let the silence claim us.
The passage ahead begins to brighten with something that isn't the cold glow of phosphorescence or the false light of spectral fire. Real light—pale and clean and honest—filters down through cracks in the ceiling above. Dawn light, carrying with it the promise that the longest night is finally ending, that winter's grip is beginning to loosen its hold on the world.
The Hush makes one final attempt to silence us, pressing down with the weight of all the words never spoken, all the songs never sung, all the voices lost to time and tide. For a moment I feel my throat closing, my breath stopping, my heart forgetting how to beat. The silence wants to claim us completely, to add our voices to its collection of the forever mute.
But Eurydice's blood-touched harmony cuts through the oppression like a blade of living sound, and I find strength I didn't know I possessed. We push forward together, step byagonizing step, our joined voices carving a path through silence itself.
The real world waits just ahead—I can smell it now, taste it in the air that grows fresher with each breath. Salt wind and snow and the honest scent of a harbor at dawn. The sound of waves that move with tide and weather, not with the artificial currents of the dead. The distant chiming of bells that ring for joy instead of sorrow.
The Hush gives way before us, unable to hold back the power of love given voice, of blood willingly spilled in service of something greater than self. We emerge from its grip like swimmers breaking the surface after diving too deep, gasping and bleeding but alive, our songs intact and our bond unbroken.
Behind us, the tunnel collapses in on itself, sealing the necropolis away from the living world. The drowned choir's lament fades to nothing, cut off by tons of stone and the simple fact that their realm no longer has any claim on us.
Above, the first pale light of dawn kisses the water's surface, and the bells of Milthar ring out to welcome us home.
30
EURYDICE
The surface light flickers like a lantern behind fog, pale and precious after so long in the depths. Each stroke toward it feels like swimming through liquid hope, the water growing warmer and more real with every movement. But exhaustion weighs on my limbs like iron chains, and I can feel the last of my strength bleeding away through the cut on my leg. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhalation a victory hard-won against the crushing fatigue that wants to drag me back down into the dark.
"Theron," I call out, though my voice emerges as barely more than a whisper. Blood still coats my tongue from our passage through the Hush, metallic and warm, a reminder of the price we paid to escape that terrible silence. "I can see it. I can see the way out."
But even as I speak the words, doubt gnaws at my heart like a living thing. The necropolis has shown us so many false hopes, so many seeming exits that led only to deeper chambers and darker trials. What if this light is just another illusion? What if we're swimming toward nothing more than phosphorescent decay masquerading as dawn?
"Trust your heart," I whisper to myself, forcing my aching arms to continue their rhythm. "Trust his voice. Trust the love that brought you this far."
Behind us, the water ripples with something that might be pursuit or might simply be the necropolis settling into new patterns after our disruption. The drowned choir's voices have faded to nothing, cut off by the collapsed tunnel, but I can still feel their hunger reaching across the distance. They want us back, want our warmth and life to fill the cold spaces we've left in their eternal song.
A shadow passes overhead—dark and swift, blocking out the precious light for a heart-stopping moment. My first thought is that some new horror has awakened, some guardian of the threshold between the living world and the domain of the dead. But then I hear a sound that makes my spirit soar: the cry of a seabird, harsh and beautiful and utterly, completely alive.
"Gulls," I gasp, tears mixing with the salt water on my cheeks. "Theron, those are real gulls. We're almost home."
The surface draws closer with agonizing slowness, each stroke an eternity of effort and hope. My vision blurs with exhaustion, but I can make out shapes moving in the pale light above—figures on boats, lanterns swaying in the pre-dawn breeze, the solid bulk of Milthar's harbor walls rising like protective arms around us.
